


Breathing Darkness

by DangerousBliss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousBliss/pseuds/DangerousBliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns after three years of hunting Moriarty's men he finds London has changed thanks to a new criminal mastermind. He's psychopathic, intelligent, and completely insane. He also happens to be the one person Sherlock made it his goal to protect on the roof of St Bart's three years ago. And he will continue to protect the good doctor, even if he has lost his humanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

"Goodbye, John."

The words cut right through me, and time seemed to slow as my best friend leaned forward over the side of St. Bart's hospital. There was nothing I could do but watch. If not for the fact he was falling to his death I'm sure it would have been almost beautiful, with his dark coat spread behind him like wings and a look of pure serenity on his face as he fell.

Only a few seconds later, he hit the ground, and my soul shattered.

I let out a silent scream and lurched forward, determined to check if he really was... I couldn't even think the word. I was so lost mentally that I didn't care when the bike knocked me over, I just got right back up and resumed my desperate journey to the man that lay unmoving at the side of the road. There was a crowd of people gathered around him, but I ignored them and shoved them out of my way, finally getting to view my friend. His once bright and calculating eyes were now glazed over, and the blood that still poured from him had formed a halo of crimson around his head. He was pale in a way no one alive could be, but it didn't stop me from checking. I knelt shakily down beside him, and I searched desperately for a pulse, but there was no movement beneath my fingers.

That's when I finally broke.

I felt cold right down to my soul (if I even had one left). The kind of cold that no matter what I did, I would never feel warm again. My face was blank as I stood, and I proceeded to ignore my surroundings as I attempted to process what had just happened. To anyone looking at me, I probably looked indifferent to the bloody scene before me, but they couldn't see what was going on inside my head. I didn't react, there was nothing left of me to create a reaction. My eyes stared blankly forward, seeing nothing, in a way that I'm sure was similar to Sherlocks' in that moment. Some people may have described my lack of reaction as that the event 'hadn't properly sunk in yet', but they were wrong. This event was everything at the moment, and it had stripped me of all my emotions up to the point that I felt nothing. I couldn't.

The small crowd had grown larger with every passing second, and it looked as though someone had called the police as I became partly aware of bright flashing lights. I hadn't moved from my position, and my eyes continued to watch Sherlock as he was taken away in the ambulance. I dimly became aware of the fact someone was calling my name, but I took no notice of them, instead preferring the tranquil solitude I had allowed myself.

What was I feeling in that moment? I asked myself that question, as I wasn't completely certain. My brain was too foggy to think of anything except the image that had been permanently burned into my mind. The image of Sherlock's dead eyes staring blankly into the distance.

I think that's when it finally hit me. Sherlock was dead. Honest-to-God dead. I would never hear his deep baritone voice rattling off deduction after deduction. Never again would I get to see that gleeful sparkle in his eye as he solved a particularly complicated case. I would never get to tell him how amazingly brilliant he was. I would never get to tell him how much he'd meant to me, how he'd saved me. From myself.

It was at that moment I realised something. I would rather die than go back to the same boring, inconsequential life I'd been living before I met Sherlock. That was not an exaggeration. The only thing that kept me from getting my gun out of my trousers and ending it all right there and then was the thought that Sherlock wouldn't have approved. Even in death the man still influenced my decisions. There had to be something I could do, anything to take away the feeling of uselessness. Anything.

"John!" Lestrade had appeared in front of me and had shaken me out of my depressing thoughts long enough to get me wrapped in a shock blanket and bundled into a police car to send me home. If it could still be called that. On the way back I noticed my hands were covered in his blood. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the crimson that now stained my palms, even though the image brought on an onslaught of pain and bloody images from only minutes ago.

Mrs Hudson was crying silently when I was finally brought back to our- my flat, but I didn't stop to comfort her. I continued past her as though she wasn't even there, entering my bedroom and sitting down gently on my bed, in deep thought. I kept waiting for the tears that I was sure were only seconds away, but none came. I didn't sleep that night. Or any of the next three nights. However, I did sleep on the fourth night, as I finally entered the detective's room and slept in his bed instead.

I didn't hear from Mycroft over those few days, which was just as well. I knew in my heart I predominantly blamed him for Sherlock's death.

I got a few texts from Lestrade, but I didn't answer, so he didn't continue.

Mrs Hudson left on the second day. She told me she was only going for a few days, but I suspected it might be longer than that.

I slept in his bed every night after that.

The funeral went as could be expected. A few people cried, most didn't. I was not one of the few that did. I heard someone question if I had even liked Sherlock at all. I ignored them. Thankfully, the press were not there, but I doubt I would have cared much if they were anyway. It seemed like I didn't care about anything anymore. What was the point? Sherlock was gone, so why bother?

Some people tried to offer their condolences, but I merely nodded and walked away. Eventually, they seemed to get the hint and left me alone. I seemed to be constantly alone at the moment, just another reminder of what I had lost.

Three weeks on, I was standing in front of his tombstone. I just stared at it, there was nothing I wanted to say, after all it was only a chunk of rock. I read over the lines on the stone over and over again, as the words refused to take hold inside my mind. I bent down and placed a single white snowdrop in front of the stone that I had picked on the way an stood back to admire it. So beautiful, and yet it had barely had time to live before it was ripped away from those around it, away from those who had loved it.

It was then that my emotions returned in full force, so strong that I staggered backwards, reeling from the shock. I had expected sadness, pain and grief. What I had not anticipated was the raw, hot fury I felt bubble inside me, and I let out my most agonising scream, and along with it all my hatred and anger to the world around me. I began to pace, and let wild thoughts fly through my mind at break-neck speeds, and past my lips in a low growl.

That bastard!

How dare he leave me alone like this!

Does he not realise what I've had to go through?!

We were supposed to solve cases together for years to come!

Bloody Mycroft helped kill him!

How could he force me to watch for chrissakes?

Did he not have a heart at all?!

He left me. Alone.

He shouldn't have had to die.

Now I have no one.

No one to save me from myself.

No way to experience the thrill I got when I was with him.

I can't solve cases on my own. I don't know how.

I needed something to keep me alive. Not sane, no, I'd gone past the mark of insanity already that much was clear.

Just alive.

Slowly, a grin split my features as I contemplated something. It was brilliant, really. My morals had gone out the window the moment my best friend had made me watch him commit suicide, so I had no problems with this idea. It would certainly be entertaining. Sherlock wouldn't have approved, but he was dead. He had caused me pain. Pain that had broken me, and had caused me to dissolve into madness. I couldn't take out my hatred on him, so I would do it on the world and people he had loved so much and had fought so hard to protect. I giggled with glee, and skipped away from Sherlock's grave, turning around one last time to blow it a kiss, before continuing along down my descent into madness and revenge.

Please review! I love to get feedback on all my stories, and this has been on my computer for a while so I thought I'd upload it just to see what people think! I will definitely write more chapters if people like this one!


	2. A Shadow of Doubt

[Sherlock]

My hand trembled as I raised the gun and aimed it at the man's head. I tried to keep my hand steady, but even after three years of necessary killing, I still couldn't separate myself from the sentiment John had drilled into me over such a short space of time. The man did not look afraid, and even gave me a grim smile before closing his eyes and accepting his fate. I wasted no more time, and my fingers finally succeeded in pulling the trigger. The cold metal jumped in my hand as the bullet ripped out from the nozzle of the gun and buried itself in the man's head. As he collapsed, my arm fell down to my side and I let go of the gun, both in torment and happiness. I'd just killed another man, but it would be worth it. I would finally be able to go home. Back to Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly... But most importantly, I would be able to return to John. That's what it all came down to. My best, and only, friend. God knows how I'd missed him these last few years. Soon, life would return to normal, and before I knew it we'd be back solving cases again and eating Indian take-away in front of the TV, watching crap shows and laughing. Back to normality.

A sudden jolt shook me out of my thoughts and I opened my eyes to see the car had stopped outside the Diogenes Club. It made sense really that this would be where my brother had chosen our reunion to be. Obviously he had known about my plan that day on the roof of St Bart's, and I could only hope he'd kept his promise in return for my help. It had taken me three long bloody years to destroy what was left of Moriarty's network, so Mycroft had better have taken care of John while I was gone.

One of Mycroft's lackeys chose that moment to open the car door for me, and I only just managed to keep my face blank as I got out and headed into the club. I could feel my heart rate increase as I moved through the rooms to my brother's office, and I couldn't stop the slight bounce in my step as I neared the room. It wasn't so much the fact that I was back in familiar territory that was making my emotions run wild like this, rather that this meeting would finally mean the end of all the hunting and killing I had endured. With Mycroft's permission, well, confirmation, I would be able to return to my life with John. It would all finally have a purpose.

I didn't bother to knock before I strode into the room, my eyes taking in every detail before coming to rest on Mycroft himself. The first thing I noticed was that he had finally lost weight, but he now looked too thin, and the hollowness of his cheekbones made the dark circles under his eyes stand out even more. It was obvious from the way he refused to meet my eyes and how he was nervously twiddling his thumbs that something was wrong. The thing that worried me was that for him to be looking like this, whatever something had gone wrong had been that way for a while now.

I stopped, uncertain of what to do, what his changing demeanour meant for me. It was obviously going to affect me in a bad way, otherwise he wouldn't look so guilty.

My brother chose that moment to finally look up at me, and I could almost feel his gaze as he took in my new appearance. It had been necessary to dye my hair lighter and wear contacts to disguise myself from my enemies, but I wouldn't have to any longer. Hopefully.

"Sherlock." He finally greeted me, and I gave him a nod in return. I was silently hoping he would give me the answers I'd been waiting for without me having to ask him, but it didn't seem like he wanted to.

"I heard the last operation went down smoothly," he began, and his gaze dropped since we both knew he was stalling.

"Enough of your procrastination attempts, brother, just spit it out. Did you keep your promise or not?" I deliberately added bite to my words, and moved myself so that we were barely two feet apart. Half of me didn't want to know what had gone wrong, but I reasoned that I would rather be prepared.

He met my gaze again for a second, and seemed to be about to tell me something important, but backed out quickly, instead going for something else to take my mind off his hesitation. Standing up and walking to the window, he kept his face away from mine when he said a sentence I'd hoped not to hear, at least for a long while yet.

"Mrs Hudson... She was murdered. About three weeks ago."

I stepped back, visibly shocked as I tried to process this new information. Mrs Hudson... She'd been like a mother to me, a replacement one at least. To both me and John, she'd been so sweet and caring, so undeserving of this awful fate. I swallowed hard, so unprepared for this moment that I had to lean against my brother's desk for support.

"Who?" I asked tentatively after a few minutes of silence.

"I don't know." Mycroft replied, but I could tell he was lying. I would ask him about it later, let him keep his secrets for now. I wanted the time to mourn for Mrs Hudson's untimely demise.

"I want to go home. To Baker Street. To John." I looked at him hopefully across the room, and I saw him stiffen at my words. He still hadn't turned around.

"Will that be a problem?" I asked, suddenly so very worried. What if this was why he was so quiet? Had something happened while I was gone? Was John alright? His reply both startled me and had me feeling sick with concern.

"That might be best. There's something we need to discuss, and I'd rather not do it here." He looked at me with a harrowing expression on his face, before sweeping out the room, calling to me as he left to follow in the car I'd arrived in.

I swallowed audibly, and began walking slowly towards the door, so scared that something terrible had happened. What could be worse that the death of Mrs Hudson?

I didn't even want to think about it.


	3. The Panic Sets In

[Sherlock]

I walked slowly through the twisting hallways and rooms of the Diogenes Club, completely lost in thought. Mycroft had already left, so I didn't have to worry about my thoughts being interrupted. My feet knew the way having done this little journey so many times, and I didn't hurry as I knew my brother would want us to travel in separate vehicles.

What could he possibly have wanted to discuss with me that couldn't be said in the privacy of his office? It was concerning to say the least. There were many possible reasons he required privacy, and many different possibilities as to why he looked so guilty and worried, but I couldn't think of a situation that would require both. Also, the fact that it was somehow worse than the murder of Mrs Hudson was frightfully alarming.

I stopped in my tracks when a thought finally came to me. Something that would make far too much sense. I had to fight the urge to gasp when I realised how probable that particular situation could be. My breath caught in my throat and I was unable to stop the slight tremor in my hands as I tried so very hard to remain calm.

There was only one person who I cared about more than Mrs Hudson, and that was John. My dearest friend... Had something happened to him while I was gone? Could he have been killed too? I fought waves of panic at the notion and began to jog through the last few hallways. I needed to know now what was going on. If John had been killed or even... Killed himself... I shook my head at the notion. The man I knew would never give up his life so easily, he was a fighter and always would be, no matter how hard life was. The problem was, now the idea wouldn't go away and a little voice in the back of my head kept sneakily bringing it to my attention while I jogged. I decided that if anything along those lines had occurred, Mycroft would suffer my wrath wholeheartedly. My brother had sworn to protect those I cared about, and he wouldn't be let off so easily if he had failed such a simple task.

I finally reached the waiting car and climbed in, unsurprised when the driver pulled away without need of further instructions. I leaned back and closed my eyes, searching through my memories of the day I supposedly died and realising I had no idea how my death might have affected John. Had he turned to the bottle in the same way his sister had? I was quite certain he would never have touched any drugs being a doctor himself, but I couldn't be certain he wouldn't have had the temptation. I had felt it often enough myself to know the intense happiness one felt when the real world just slipped away. It was, unsurprisingly, a lot easier to think about John having minor problems after my demise rather than him being gone from this world completely. The irony of such a situation would be unparalleled.

The car came suddenly to a halt, and it only took me a second to realise we could not possibly be at Baker Street yet. I opened my eyes and scanned quickly for the problem, which, unfortunately, was far too easy to spot.

There had been an accident, the car in front had its windows shattered and the front was smoking heavily. I could tell immediately that the cause of this crash had been a bomb, but that wasn't what had me scrambling out of the car as fast as I could. It was the fact that I knew that car. It was Mycroft's.

I ran to the smoking heap and managed to open the side door, ready for the possibility of a gory scene considering the extent of the damage. However, my brother looked to be mostly alright, aside from the gash on his forehead and a possible broken arm.

His gaze met mine, and I was shocked to see panic there when he realised I was trying to help him.

"Leave. Now." He ordered, and I was incredulously about to ask why I would do such a thing when he interrupted me with an explanation.

"I don't have time to explain," he said, and he looked so very weak I didn't have the heart to interrupt him. "You need to go right now, and hide. He must not know you're alive, nor that you are back in London. Go to Lestrade, he'll explain everything. Now Sherlock, dammit! Just go!"

I surprised the both of us by actually following my brother's unjustified command, and sprinted away from the wreckage, head spinning from this new information. Who was he? Why couldn't he know I was alive? Could it possibly be the same person who had murdered my landlady? Could this man have done something to John? The possibilities were endless, and I was determined to find out exactly what I was dealing with here.

I kept to the back alleys and streets as I made my way to Scotland Yard. I would follow Mycroft's advice and have Lestrade explain everything to me. I was slightly troubled by the idea that my brother could be in danger if this man, whoever he was, was after him, but I cleared my head of those thoughts when I neared the Yard.

It was just too easy to slip past the receptionist and loitering police officers- I would remind Lestade that he needed to upgrade his security after all this was over. I made my way to his office, chuckling slightly when Anderson walked past without recognising me. Stupid man.

I didn't bother to knock before opening Lestrade's door, but in hindsight that probably would have been advisable since he was busy drinking coffee when I walked boldly into the room. The DI's eyes widened when he saw me, and he spat out his drink all over his desk in shock and perhaps a bit of fright.

"Sher-Sherlock! You're alive!" He stuttered and I had to force myself not to roll my eyes. "What...how...why.." He began so many questions but seemed unable to choose which one he wanted me to answer first, as he didn't finish any of them.

"That's not important right at this moment," I said, and his eyes narrowed in both confusion and perhaps a slight wariness now that he had gotten over his initial shock of seeing me alive. "What matters is that my brother sent me to you for an explanation of something. I don't know what, but it seemed very important, and may or may not have something to do with Baker Street and/or John. Am I correct in that assumption?" I could tell immediately by his face that I was right. As soon as I had mentioned John, Lestrade had gone as white as a sheet and had looked at me with such sadness that I couldn't help but worry.

"You don't know." He stated, and leant his head on his hands as he took a deep breath.

"Well obviously not or I wouldn't have come to you!" I spat, growing more and more impatient by the second, but also so very afraid. What could have Lestrade, a Detective Inspector no less, who dealed with such horrible crimes everyday, looking like this?

He watched me warily for a few seconds while he tried to figure out a way to tell me what I was now certain was bad, if not terrible, news. I nearly got my answer from him, as he had just opened his mouth to begin, when the door flew open and Donovan skidded into the room, eyes bright with urgency.

"Sir," she began, before she caught sight of me and stopped. I could tell she was wondering what to do, but suddenly she seemed to make the decision and continued, ignoring me completely. It really was urgent, after all.

"You'd better come now, Greg. There's something going on outside. A pub- a public execution. Of Mycroft Holmes, Sir." She looked down, and I could see her visibly shaking. Lestrade stood and ran across the room towards her, grabbing her arms and forcing her to look in his eyes.

"Is it...Him?" Greg asked, and Donovan nodded slowly. He put his head in his hands in what looked an awful lot like anguish, and I couldn't help but stare.

"Who?" I asked, already unnerved, but determined to get an answer.

They both turned to look at me, before giving each other a look I couldn't interpret. There seemed to be an unspoken argument, which it looked like Donovan may have won judging by Lestrade's unhappy sigh. He turned back to me and took a small step closer, not meeting my eye.

"You'd better come with us. It'll be the best way to explain just how fucked up this whole thing is." I nodded hesitantly and followed him out of the room.


	4. Torment

[Sherlock]

The scene before me was horrifying.

I'd often rejected the idea that I cared for my brother, and completely denied any notion that suggested otherwise, but this was really pushing even my limits.

A reasonably large crowd had gathered round the corner from the Yard to watch with both horror and fascination what was going on atop a low, hastily constructed stage. There were already police officers surrounding the abomination, attempting to keep the crowd at a safe distance, and trying in vain to access the stage, but they were held off by the promise of a shooting match with the group of men who currently occupied the area, whose guns were pointing into the crowd. All wore black combat gear and sunglasses which would have made the whole scene quite cliche and a bit humorous if not for the set-up in the centre of the stage. My brother was knelt, still bloody from the car accident only twenty minutes ago (it felt like so much longer), and it looked as though he was probably in pain, but he was managing to keep his face expressionless.

Next to Mycroft stood a man who looked vaguely familiar, but I was unable to place where I'd seen him. He reminded me of Moriarty, with his dark hair and a manic, slightly insane-looking grin plastered on his pale face. Like the men he surrounded himself with, this man also wore sunglasses, but was also wearing a navy suit to stand out. There was a small black gun nestled in his right palm, which he was so very casually holding to the side of Mycroft's head, much to my horror and fury. My brother looked to be unfazed by the situation he now found himself in, but I knew from past experience this was not the case. His eyes gave him away, as they were slightly wider than usual and filled with an overpowering sense of fear, knowing his life could end at any moment. I didn't blame him.

We had come to a halt when we had first arrived at the scene, but Lestrade seemed to finally snap out of the trance he was in, and began to move swiftly towards the group of Yard officers already by the stage. I decided to heed Mycroft's prior warning, and put my hood up so it mostly covered my face before following after the DI. We reached the officers at approximately the same time thanks to my longer strides, and I continued to watch the man on the stage for any sign of aggressive movement. He really did look familiar, and I wondered again where I had seen him. Was he one of the criminals I'd helped put into prison? It seemed likely considering what he was doing, but something in my gut was telling me that I wasn't correct in that assumption. So who was he?

Greg had been quietly talking to a female officer, and though I hadn't been listening I could tell they had some information that I did not have, and they were uncertain as to whether to share it with me at this present moment. It annoyed me, but I knew trying to get it out of them would only make them back off even more. Instead, I caught Mycroft's gaze, and his eyes managed to widen even further when he recognised me. He shook his head, trying to tell me to leave the scene, but I narrowed my eyes and shook my head right back at him. I wasn't going to go anywhere while his life was in the hands of a complete stranger who was most likely insane. After a couple of moments, he gave a small sigh and an apologetic look which I didn't really understand.

All these secrets were getting on my nerves, and just made me all the more determined to find out exactly what was going on. Luckily, I didn't have long to wait.

At that moment, Lestrade stepped forward into the direct sight of the man on the stage, who swapped his creepy smile for a more satisfying smirk as the two locked gazes. The man stood up straighter as the DI moved closer, and he seemed to be expecting him, as he waved away his security when they tensed at the oncoming visitor. I hung back but moved slowly closer to the stage, blending in to those around me.

"This. Ends. Now." Lestrade growled, and I was surprised at how forceful he sounded, but more importantly, how informally he had decided to address the man. This led me to believe that they knew each other well, but how? Lestrade wasn't one to go round befriending criminals, and especially not criminal masterminds like this man appeared to be. Although, I had to question this man's logic, surely he could see the flaw with coming out here in the middle of a crowd to reveal himself? Not always the smartest move.

Then, he spoke.

That voice... I definitely knew it. It was different somehow, and that made it more difficult to place, but I was certain I'd heard it before. It was quite high pitched, but it sounded as though he was putting it on, his voice was definitely not that high usually.

"What ends, Greg? Mycroft's life? Well, he does deserve it, and since you insist..." The familiar stranger grinned again and clicked the safety off the gun causing everyone watching to stiffen in anticipation.

"Please..." Lestrade had resorted to begging, his authority having no effect on this man.

The man regarded Lestrade for a moment thoughtfully, before chuckling quietly to himself. "Beg. Beg for this son-of-a-bitch's life. And maybe if you do, I won't kill him. Yet." He said, cocking his head on one side and I saw Greg go pale.

After a couple of moments Lestrade let out a deep and very defeated sigh. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before lowering his head in either shame or submission, it was difficult to tell which.

"Please. You know it's not right, what you're doing. It wasn't Mycroft's fault what happened. Or Mrs Hudson's." He wiped a stray tear at the thought, and I felt myself go cold as I realised exactly what he was saying. "You need to stop this right now, let Mycroft go and we can talk about this. This isn't you. The man I knew would never do anything like this!" Lestrade's voice had risen to an almost hysteric level as he fought so hard to remain calm and controlled, but was failing miserably. I began to move towards him, and soon I was just a few feet behind, no longer caring about being seen.

The man rolled his eyes. "Ugh, Greg. Don try to talk to me about any of that bullshit. We both know exactly what happened. In case you don't remember, I was there." He turned and looked disgustedly down at my brother as he said this. Suddenly, a change came over him. His body stiffened, and he bared his teeth in what looked like barely-concealed fury. I immediately recognised what he was going to do, and as he raised the gun I sprinted up to the stage, hoisting myself up and tackling him to the ground just as the gun went off. We both went sprawling to the floor, and I sat up and looked around at my brother to check he had not been hurt. He looked positively horrified, and I couldn't understand why. I turned back to the man I had just tackled and stopped, completely unmoving as I really saw him for the first time.

His glasses had fallen off upon his impact with the ground, and now I could see his whole face. His completely familiar face that I had seen so many times that I had memorised it, detail for detail. His bright blue eyes, usually so full of life and joy were now dead and empty, but still far too recognisable.

Suddenly everything made sense.

The guilty look my brother had given me.

The worry and regret on Lestrade's face.

The whispers.

It. Was. John.

"John..." I murmured, and he too froze as he finally recognised me.

"Sh-Sherlock?" He asked.

I could only nod.


	5. A Life of Insanity

[John]

I watched with avid fascination as the car exploded, and I only wished I could have seen the Ice Man's face as he realised what had happened. I was only watching it live on the laptop one of my lackeys had conveniently remembered to bring with them, but I still felt a rush of pleasure and excitement when the bomb went off. I let out a happy giggle as I cherished the moment. The beginning of the end, one might say. The end of the bastard who had cost my dearest friend his life. It still hurt to think of Sherlock, but I talked to him often in my dreams, and he always supported whatever I was planning, so it wasn't as though he was gone. Not really. I still missed his presence, but at least this way I wasn't constantly worrying about whether he was alright. No one could hurt him now.

I also visited his grave occasionally, but never for long, as Mycroft would always know when I was there, and would attempt to talk me out of this "mad path of vengeance" as he so eloquently put it. I grinned as I realised I would no longer have to worry about his interruptions. He would soon be dead.

I continued to watch the tape, and froze when something caught my eye. A figure, running to the car, having just stepped out of the one behind. I growled and muttered a string of curses under my breath, causing the man on my right to flinch in anticipation. They all knew what happened when I got in a rage, and this was certainly enough to make me angry. The figure, who I couldn't see properly, seemed to talk to Mycroft for a few seconds, then abruptly left, fleeing into the nearest dark alleyway. I pondered this for a moment, but decided soon after that it wasn't a big deal. Most likely one of Mycroft's spies, or one of Sherlock's old homeless network. One stupid homeless person would not be able to stop my plan.

It was time to greet the British Government.

Three of my men got out of a nearby car and i watched on the screen as they trooped across to the smoking mess, flinging the door open and dragging an injured Mycroft out by his forearms. I smirked pleasantly when I realised he was in pain. Served him right.

They brought him back to the car, and began to drive to the predetermined meeting post which I was already outside of. Getting out of the car I had been waiting in, I skipped over to the building I would "prep" our guest in. I wouldn't be able to fully make him pay once we were on the stage, as I'd have to make do with a quick, dramatic execution, but there was no reason I couldn't give him a piece of my mind beforehand.

I waited patiently for a good ten minutes before they arrived, dragging a slightly broken-looking Mycroft between them. His eyes widened when he saw me, and I gave him a little wave and an evil grin. I'd dyed my hair since I last saw him, as dark blond didn't really give off that 'evil maniac' vibe I was going for. I was wearing an expensive navy suit just for the occasion, it was amazing the amount of money one could make when organising crimes. No wonder Moriarty had liked it so much.

"John." Mycroft finally greeted me, and I saw a flash of pain in his eyes. I stepped closer until we were only a couple of meters apart, and gestured to my guards that they should put him in the chair I had provided. He had given me a choice of whether or not to stand when we first met, but I didn't think he deserved the option. Once he was seated, he had to look up at me to see my face, and I removed my glasses so that he could see every movement I made. I wanted him to look me in the eye for these last few minutes of his life, and I wanted him to fully understand how much he had betrayed both me and Sherlock.

"I had guessed you'd be coming for me." he sighed and I lowered my face so it was directly in front of his.

"We're going to have lots of fun in these next few minutes, Mycroft dear. I only wish poor Sherlock could be here to see this! He'd join in, you know. That man always complained about how much he hated you, no wonder you betrayed him!" He flinched, and I had to force myself not to hit him as a look of regret passed his face.

"No no no! You can't possibly be expecting forgiveness now can you?" I kept the smile on my face, but it was forced, and I narrowed my eyes as a wave of fury passed through me.

"Look, John..." He stared, but I cut him off, my anger finally spilling out.

"No, Mycroft! I will not stand here and let you tell me about how He wouldn't have wanted this, how I'm making a mistake and that I should let you help me! He trusted you, and YOU KILLED HIM!" I screamed in his face, and I was happy to see the Ice Man flinch at my accusations. I then proceeded to punch him in the jaw, and then slapped him for good measure. He was panting heavily, and I could see the well-masked but painfully obvious fear in his eyes.

"You're a complete bastard, you know that right?" I gritted my teeth and punched him again for good measure, giving a grunt of approval when I heard the air being forced out of his lungs. "You, and everyone else that helped kill him that day. Don't worry, they'll all get their turns." I spat at him, and I shook my head when he attempted to wipe it off. I wanted him to feel my contempt for him, burning against his pale flesh in that puddle of saliva dripping down his cheek.

"I still don't see why Mrs Hudson had to become part of your messed-up plans for revenge, John. You know it wasn't right. The John that I knew, the John that Sherlock jumped for, he wouldn't have done that." I could see his impressive brain working, trying to think of anything he could say that might make me question what I was doing. I just laughed cruelly at his response.

"Oh come now Mycroft! If she hadn't been 'injured', I would never have left Sherlock alone with Moriarty, and he wouldn't have jumped." I watched him, very happy with my explanation, but he didn't seem to agree with my logic.

"That's it?! That's why you killed her? Because Sherlock sent that text to get you out of the way?! How could she possibly have known he would do that? The only person you can blame for that is him-" I couldn't stand to listen to any more of his crap.

"ENOUGH!" I shrieked, and he recoiled in surprise and fear. I punched him again, and this time he fell to the floor, clutching his eye. I kicked him and stood on his fingers, all the while tears were streaming down my face. Once I was certain he could no longer defend himself, I bent down and growled at him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking him towards me.

"You listening?" I asked him, and pulled on his hair until he nodded. "You don't realise how much I hate you. How much I want to beat you until an inch of your life, and then kill you in the longest most excruciating pain possible. But I have something else planned for you!" I grinned at the confusion etched on his face and laughed gleefully before continuing.

"You will be an example to the people of London. To everyone who helped kill Him, with their vile words and comments that held no evidence. They will watch as I kill you, and they will be unable to do anything about it. They will live in fear and regret of what they have done." I let that settle in before I delivered the biggest blow of all.

"You see, Mycroft, you were wrong. Sentiment is an advantage, just look at where it's brought me! If only Sherlock could see me now..." I looked up in thought as I imagined the look of delight on his face if he were here with me now.

"You're delusional. Mad. Insane." Mycroft growled, and I turned to him in surprise. "He would have despised what you've become. You aren't powerful, you aren't serving justice at those who've hurt you. You're a monster, John Watson. An evil, soulless creature, just like Moriarty."

I felt my face twist with rage as his words finally registered, and I slapped him again for the last time. "Bring him." I ordered to my henchmen, and they obeyed, pulling the British Government up by his shoulders. I turned to him one last time and whispered, "Any regrets?"

"Just one. Not killing you when I had the chance." He stiffened as though expecting another slap, but I just giggled at him and patted him lightly on the shoulder.

"You wouldn't have done that," I said as he looked at me confusedly. "Sherlock wouldn't have let you." With that, I skipped ahead, singing softly to myself as I went.

We arrived on the stage shortly after, and soon a crowd had gathered. I brought my gun up to Mycroft's head and forced him to kneel beside me as I waited for Lestrade. I knew he'd be the one to come. He always did.

I didn't have to wait long, and soon saw him walk towards me. I felt my grin get even wider as I registered the look of horror and depression he wore at seeing me.

"This. Ends. Now." He said, and I could only smirk at how stupidly corny that sentence had been.

"What ends, Greg? Mycroft's life? Well, he does deserve it, and since you insist..." I completely believed with every atom that made up my being that Mycroft did deserve to die. However, I wasn't quite done yet, and happily bantered with Lestrade for a bit longer, forcing him to beg even though I knew it wouldn't work. Mycroft would die here, that was a certainty.

I rolled my eyes when he started to whine on about how "John wouldn't have done this" and all that was absolute bollocks. I was still John wasn't I? And I was certainly doing this.

"Ugh, Greg. Don try to talk to me about any of that bullshit. We both know exactly what happened. In case you don't remember, I was there." I reasoned with him, before turning back to Mycroft. Suddenly I felt I couldn't wait any longer. His death would bring me a small amount of peace, and I would take all the peace I could get at the moment. I raised the gun to fire, but someone knocked into me from behind, causing the gun to go off away from Mycroft's head, and sending us both sprawling on the floor. My glasses flew off and shattered a few feet away which caused me to curse quietly. Whoever had stopped me was going to pay dearly. They were Gucci for goodness sakes!

I turned to face them, and possibly shoot them in the head if need be, but I stopped.

There was something about the man that I recognised, but what was it...?

Then, everything shifted into focus as he spoke, his eyes wide with horror and shock.

"John?" He whimpered.

I couldn't think straight. This wasn't possible. He was dead.

"Sh-Sherlock?" I mumbled, worried he wasn't real, that insanity had finally overcome me at long last. However, he nodded, and I realised exactly what this meant. For him, for me, for both of us.

Holy Shit, I thought.


	6. The Sound of Time Stopping

[Sherlock]

Time seemed to slow down, then stop altogether as we regarded each other, matching looks of shock on our faces. Each of us waited for the other to react, to do something, anything, in light of the situation which we now found ourselves. However, since neither of us could have possibly predicted this meeting, we had no idea what to say to each other. For once, my brain was not trying to come up with a solution. I was too numb inside for any kind of deep thinking, and I knew that once I started to delve into what this situation now meant for the both of us, I would not be able to stop for some time. John seemed to be thinking along the same lines. wasteland like a while before either of us moved, though it must only have been a few seconds in total. Needless to say, John's reaction was also quite unexpected, but at that moment I really felt I deserved it.

The change was so sudden that I barely had time to process it before he was upon me. His eyes became slits and he bared his teeth in a snarl as he leapt forward, shoving me down onto the floor of the stage and sitting on top of me, pinning me down so I couldn't struggle. I wouldn't have been able to anyway, I was still in shock. This man was not my John. He couldn't possibly be my John, the man I left behind. That man was a good man. This person was barely human.

He screamed abuse at me, and I lay there and took it. He began to slap me and pull my hair, and still I lay there, unmoving. I could feel the eyes of everyone on us, Mycroft included, but I ignored them all. This moment was for me and John. He had started crying sometime between then and when he had first started punching me. I let him cry, and he didn't bother to wipe the tears away. They dropped on my face, and he stopped with his vile, horrible, truthful words to watch them as they moved down my cheeks. We stayed like that, just watching each other, and silently he got off my chest and sat beside my head, still keeping his gaze locked with my own.

"This is certainly not what I planned out reunion to be like." I said, my voice devoid of emotion. He finally looked away, looked down to where he had been unconsciously twisting his fingers together, and sighed.

"How did you plan it, then?" He asked, and I realised I had no answer for him. Certainly never on a stage surrounded by strangers. Never shoving him away from Mycroft as he aimed a gun at my brother's head. Never watching him, knowing he had lost his mind. Lost his humanity, even. I'd been prepared for the abuse, the hurtful words. I'd deserved them. The insanity was not what I'd wanted, nor expected from the level-headed army doctor.

"I don't know what to say." I finally admitted.

"That's a first." He started to drum out a rhythm on the floor. Four beats, over and over again. Dimly I registered that the police force were trying to disperse the crowd, and the noise they were making was giving me and John some more privacy. I didn't know when I had unconsciously stopped calling him 'my friend' in my head. I didn't know whether I'd be able to call him that again, not after this. I was pretty sure he felt the same way about me.

"I did it for you. It was all for you." I said, and I truly meant it. No matter what he had done, I still meant it. I would always mean it. That didn't mean I was going to accept him. There were certain limits, and John had passed them all with his unforgivable actions.

He turned to look at me, and I saw a stranger. A stranger, with John's face, staring back at me. He had the look of John, but it was his eyes that gave him away. I once heard someone say that "The eyes are the window to the soul." But if that was the case, the man in front of me didn't have one. His eyes were bottomless pits of seething anger and hate and cruelty. I searched, but I could not find the good army doctor, who had risked his life for so many others on so many different occasions. My friend did not feature in the eyes of this heartless killer.

"You left. It destroyed me." Was all he said. He had spoken in a factual manner, as though he was talking about the weather or what he was going to have for dinner that night.

Frankly, it scared me.

"I..." There was no way I could finish that sentence. He seemed to realise this, and nodded to himself, as though I wasn't even there.

"You made me watch." He smiled to himself, as though he was reliving a happy memory. The only thing that stopped me calling him out on it was the fact that his had was shaking, ever so gently. For the first time in that conversation, I allowed myself something, a good emotion.

Hope.

If his hand that had been so steady throughout his heated insults was now shaking, there was a possibility that the John I knew and loved was still there somewhere, buried in the depths of this hideous creature who called himself John. This madman. I decided to retaliate with accusations of my own, to see if I could bring out more of this John.

"You killed Mrs Hudson." It hurt me to say that out loud, but he needed to hear it. His eye twitched, but he remained otherwise impassive.

"You were about to kill Mycroft." I tried again. He looked at me for a second, but he only seemed to be checking if I was serious.

"He betrayed you. I did what I thought was right." He stared thoughtfully at the ground for a few moments, then back at my face. "You always agreed with me when you were in my dreams. Now though... You just look sad. Ashamed, even." His expression had turned to one of confusion, and he looked at me questioningly.

"I would never have agreed with you." I told him. He nodded as though he had expected it. I noticed he was still drumming away on the wooden floor. He had picked up multiple splinters, but he was either ignoring them or just didn't care.

"I don't know what to do now." He confessed, and I agreed with him, though I didn't give any indication of this. Sometime during our conversation the crowd had fully dispersed, and we were left with John's armed guards and a group of Yard officers watching us. Mycroft had moved away to give us some privacy, and it seemed John's men were at loss for what to do, and they had let him pass to speak with Lestrade. They were shooting us worried glances, but I wasn't done yet. I knew as soon as we moved, life would start up again, and we wouldn't be able to get off this time. The last few years had left us changed in a way I wasn't sure was reversible.

There was something I really wanted to ask him, but wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer. In the end I just went for it.

"Is he still in there? The John I left behind, my friend, is he still alive in there?" I held my breath and looked away from those dead eyes that had lost that happy glimmer John had once had. Kind, joyous, loving John.

"I don't know." He answered, truthfully.

I swallowed thickly against the tears that threatened.

"I missed you, Sherlock." He said. That's when the tears finally did escape from my eyes. They trailed slowly down my face, and my vision blurred. I was dimly aware that I hadn't cried in seventeen years, but I decided it wasn't really something to be proud of.

John cried too, and we just sat like that, waiting for that inevitable moment when time would start once more and release us, spinning our lives back into the dark depths of chaos.


End file.
